


Tempestatem

by Unlikelyoptimist



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nude Modeling, Obikin Big Bang, past Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6908560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unlikelyoptimist/pseuds/Unlikelyoptimist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of his mentor and lover Qui-Gon, the only thing Obi-Wan really has left is a job he’s lost interest in, an arthritic cat, and a soon-to-expire lease on an art studio where the grief is settling in right along with the paint stains and the dust. Out of nostalgia and reluctance to move on, he keeps running one class of Qui-Gon’s – the life drawing class on Wednesday nights. For the most part, he’s content to swallow his grief and drown quietly until a new model for the class forces him to decide whether he is content to simply weather the storm of grief until it suffocates him, or whether he is brave enough to move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the first part of my Obikin Big Bang story! Unfortunately, I wasn't able to finish the whole thing in time for the deadline, so I'll be posting the chapters I have done and then updating from there.

 

 

No matter how many times Obi-Wan comes to the small studio, he is struck by how it fits every expectation he has of what an art studio should look like.

The studio is an old, poorly heated room in a re-purposed apartment building. A mismatched crowd of elderly seniors, college art students, and the few ‘in-betweens’ like himself meet every Wednesday, the dues paid only to pay the model who comes in. The brick outside is crumbling, and the narrowly twisting staircase leading to the fourth floor gives enough under his feet to make his stomach twist now as he mounts it. He keeps one hand on the railing, which is threatening to give him splinters if he grips it too hard, and the other cradling a large orange cat in his arms. 

Obi-Wan pushes the key into the lock and is greeted by warm, dim yellow light. He thumbs the key before putting it back in his pocket. It’s not his key, or at least, he hasn’t made the switch in his mind yet, even after four months of coming in and opening the place up on his own. It’s Qui-Gon’s, really, even if it’s his name on the papers now and his phone number on the website.

For the most part, the studio hasn’t changed. The floors are all rough wood, two large windows on the right wall with a sink for paintbrushes underneath the closer one. Sketches paper the walls; none of them are his and most of them not even Qui-Gon’s. Even without looking, he’s aware of the few he can’t bear to take down, instantly recognizable by the smooth, unworried pencil lines and the way each pencil stroke flows into the next. Obi-Wan can still see the easy, relaxed curve of Qui-Gon’s wrist in his mind as if he’s watching a movie reel, watching as rough pencil marks take shape and create a stunning, fluid rendition of whatever might be in front of him.

Not for the first time, he wonders how a college astronomy professor like himself ended up running a live drawing class on Monday nights. As usual, the familiar prickle of pain invades his chest as he remembers. It’s the same way he ended up taking art back up in the first place despite a full teaching schedule – the same way he ended up with a cat, incidentally.

Sighing, he sets Binks down gently on a chair, the only recliner in the studio. Binks has arthritis, something that had bemused Obi-Wan when Qui-Gon explained it. To be honest, he wasn’t much of a pet person and hadn’t realized cats could even _get_  arthritis. He could have made a list of the interesting tidbits he’d learned, about cats and charcoals and the history of oil paint-

He turns away from Binks, who was licking himself, and brushes aside the plastic sheet separating the rest of the room from the modeling area. Obi-Wan starts setting up the easels, sighing as the old wood creaks in his arms. They were arranged in a rough half circle around a mattress stacked high with quilts and an afghan interwoven with cat hair. There are foam blocks, a wooden chair and a few cushions all shoved into one corner, in case the model might decide to opt for a different pose. As he straightens up, brushing eraser bits off one of the chairs, he hears the sound of the door opening.

Ah, yes. The new model. Apparently newspapers are still good for something, given that the classified ad he’d taken out yielded results in under a day.

“Come in, I’ll be right with you,” he called without looking back, trying to remember the model’s name. He remembered it being something odd, although he hardly had any room to talk given his own name. Something with an A. He’d know soon enough, and he supposed it didn’t really matter one way or another. This man is just another model, tonight only another class.

Obi-Wan re-enters the main area to find a tall, slim figure scooping the cat up into his  arms. The man turns, and Obi-Wan blinks, taken aback.

This is, after all, an amateur art class in a small, barely urbanized Ohio town. The models have been, for the most part, thoroughly average looking people, varied in every possible way. In fact, Qui-Gon had always stressed the importance of a diversity of subjects, making sure the distribution of age, height, weight, gender, and any other possible physical trait was as even as possible.

Given the circumstances, the last thing Obi-Wan had come to expect was someone who looked, for all intents and purposes, like an actual model plucked from New York Fashion Week.

An unruly mop of dark blonde curls spill down to just brush the stranger’s shoulders, slightly frizzed from the humidity and the rain. Aside from a shining pink scar over his eye, his face is almost perfect, with wide eyes and a Grecian nose that accents the curves of his full lips. It isn't until the model’s hand pauses with his fingers between Bink’s ears that Obi-Wan realizes he must be staring.

“Am I not meant to pick him up?” The stranger asks. Obi-Wan blinks, nonplussed. His brain seems to be moving at an exceedingly sluggish rate. The cat. Right.

“Oh, no-I mean, yes, certainly you're free to. I’m just surprised he let you. He doesn’t generally take to people very well,” Obi-Wan manages finally, excusing his longer-than-usual gaze. It's a blatant lie, of course. Binks is notoriously friendly and constantly seeking out another lap to settle into, but it gives him a rather convenient reason for staring like an idiot instead of greeting his guest.

“As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m-“

“Obi-Wan. And I’m Anakin,” he says with a quick, bright smile. Even his teeth seem to be cast from a mold, two symmetrical rows of white. “I’d shake your hand, but if the cat’s going to claw me next time I try and pick him up, I might as well savor the moment.”

Despite himself, the corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth twitch upwards.

“That’s quite alright. If you don’t mind carrying him, and I’ll warn you he gets quite heavy after a few minutes, I can show you around and tell you a little bit more about what you’ll be doing.”

Unlike most prospective models, Anakin had been insistent that he didn’t need to observe for a class first, that he was sure it was something he wanted to do. Seeing him now, it fits neatly into the few things Obi-Wan has gleaned of Anakin's personality in the last few minutes.

Anakin’s smile is bright and brash, embracing the idea of even so small a challenge.  

“Oh, I think I can handle it. Lead the way.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Half an hour and one very short tour later, Anakin is in the back room stripping down while the class idles into the room around the model stand. Obi-Wan sets up his easel next to Bail, who smiles.

“How are the twins?” Bail’s theatrical wince draws out a sympathetic smile.

“Doing well, although I wouldn’t say no to more than 3 hours of sleep a night.” Bail shakes his head as he undoes the clasp of a box of neat, organized pencils. He looks over, and his smile is just a hair too charming, too orchestrated for Obi-Wan to trust that the direction of the conversation is entirely organic. Seconds later, he’s proven right. “They’re getting quite big. You must come over for dinner some time so you can see them.”

The silence between them isn’t awkward, because Bail is too diplomatic to let it become so, but they both know it’s an invitation that has been evaded too long to be explained away by simple scheduling conflicts. It’s a gentle nudge, an unspoken reminder of all the times Obi-Wan frequented Bail’s home with Qui-Gon. Bail looks as though he might bring it up, remind him that he’s still welcome even without Qui-Gon, and Obi-Wan panics because he knows he can’t endure the sound of his name, not right now.

“I’m sorry, Bail. My class of juniors have been keeping me busy with their final projects. I’ll have more time when the semester is over.” There’s pleading in his eyes when he looks up, and a certain regret in the creasing in Bail’s forehead even as he nods, swallowing yet another excuse.

With the rustle of paper, the obnoxious grinding of the pencil sharpener, and the scrape of wooden chairs over the wooden floor, he’s missed the crinkling-canvas indication of Anakin’s entrance. Anakin is wearing a worn, faded black robe, and just the sight of the hollow in his throat has Obi-Wan swallowing hard. A part of Obi-Wan is guilty for noticing at all, and another is begging him with the desperation of something dying to let himself be distracted from it, just this once.

Cody trails in late, rushing to get the poorly angled seat near the end of the ring of chairs, and now everyone who promised to be there is in attendance. If Anakin is nervous at all about the prospect of dropping his robe in a few moments to a room of ten-odd strangers, there’s nothing in his lazy yawn or his loose posture to telegraph it. It isn’t until Obi-Wan happens to glance downward that he notices Anakin’s toes, curling upwards and flattening against the floor in a rhythm that spells out unease.

“If you’re ready, Anakin, we can get started.” Obi-Wan says, receiving a quick glance, a lightning flash of illumination that hints at something more than casual disregard, and then a nod.

“Sure thing.”

Anakin undoes the sash, shrugging the robe off and leaving it on the floor next to the mattress. Obi-Wan forces himself to focus only on Anakin's face, his nose, the eyes sitting underneath a pair of arched eyebrows. He does not dare look at any point lower than Anakin's chin. He suddenly can’t remember how this is done, whether he usually avoids looking at the model below the neck until they get on the stand, whether he’s ever noticed a model having particularly beautifully pectorals before. There’s a beat too long before he manages to string together words.

“Right. Good, you're here, and we're here, so...time to get started." He has a vague idea that he sounded more intelligent than this in his head, this morning in class, all day up to the exact point when Anakin walked through the door. "We’re going to start with a few one minute poses. They’re not very long, so feel free to try something more dynamic, if you’re up to it.”

For the first time, Anakin looks uncertain as he gets onto the mattress, still standing as he hovers forward as though he doesn’t know whether to stand or to sit. Obi-Wan is used to this look, the shadow of self consciousness that casts over a model’s face as they wonder if the pose they have in mind is too contrived, too simple, too silly.

“Try standing, lacing your hands behind your head-maybe a little more angle- good, and then stand with one foot slightly forward. Perfect.”

The scratch of pencils on paper begins instantly, people’s heads bobbing in quick movements as they look up, glance, and then return to the paper where their hands are moving feverishly. There’s faint music in the background, a gentle piano track. Yiruma, Obi-Wan’s fairly sure. Qui-Gon used to have more dynamic choices, orchestras and operas and concertos and occasionally an old 40s or 50s ballad, but he knows better than to brave listening to them again.

There’s a careful, maintained tensions in the lines of Anakin’s body that surprises him. Normally, a tense, uptight model would make for a bland pose or an unnatural awkwardness. In Anakin, the tension is a form of intensity, as though his muscles are straining against the stillness, a living being trying to escape from marble. Briefly, Obi-Wan thinks that Michelangelo would have been lucky to have such a muse.  

“Okay, time.” When he breaks the pose, Anakin is ready, having taken the sixty seconds to choose his next pose. Obi-Wan gets the distinct impression that he dislikes the feeling of direction. Anakin has one hand on his hip, the other trailing by his thigh, and his head is tilted towards the upper-left of the room.

This time, Obi-Wan manages a rough sketch of his own, focusing primarily on the detail of Anakin’s hand, the way his fingers curl inwards as they rest on his thigh. The one minute sketches are too quick for his meticulous, detail oriented style, and he still struggles not to drive himself mad by trying to capture every strand of hair and thumbnail and eyelash. He can still hear the old lesson he learned from Qui-Gon echoing in his warmly amused voice.

(They are at the museum, standing in the gallery. Qui-Gon's head is tilted up towards the painting in front of them. "See? Imperfections are just as much part of the product, part of the art, as your successes, Obi-Wan. Imperfections allow for variation; without them, we would be left with nothing but dry, dead, perfect recreation. See, take this piece here-)

His pencil snaps. He was pressing too hard over the sharp angle of Anakin’s elbow.  

“Time.”

And so it continues, through the one minute poses and the fives, and even during the fifteen Obi-Wan doesn’t accomplish much except a few hazy details. He deliberately avoids Anakin’s face after he makes the mistake of trying to draw his eyes. Anakin's gaze locked onto his and trapped him in place; his pencil strokes during this pose are short and vague and directionless. It’s traditional for the models to look in one direction for the length of the pose, but Obi-Wan finds that the direction happens to his easel more times than can be strictly accounted for by random chance.

“I think we’ll take a break, now,” he says, exhausted despite his lack of product to show for the effort. Anakin stretches his neck after having stared straight upwards, sitting with an arm resting along his knees, for an entire half hour. Obi-Wan barely managed to make it to the column of his neck, and he rubs his temples as the room disperses slowly, filtering into the kitchen for a drink and conversation. Hastily, he makes sure he goes with them. A glance back tells him that Anakin lingers for a moment to shrug on his robe, gaze set curiously on Obi-Wan’s easel before he follows.

As if to taunt him, Anakin mingles with everyone but Obi-Wan, making polite conversation with Windu, laughing at a joke Ahsoka is making with her trademark clever smile. Obi-Wan pours himself a glass of scotch, not bothering with the wine. Anakin seems to be listening intently to Cody’s explanation of the benefits of chalks over oils, but the second Obi-Wan moves anywhere in the room, Anakin’s eyes flicker away from his company to track Obi-Wan. He had hoped the break would be a reprieve from the endless, unwavering attention, but he finds himself just as restless and unable to focus after the glass of scotch and the half hour of relaxation as before.

“Alright, Anakin, we’re going to go with the hour pose this time. It’s quite long, so make sure you choose something you’re going to be comfortable with for the whole time. Try to hold it if you can, but let me know if you need to move so we can mark the pose before you stretch.”

It’s a canned speech given from habit. Somehow, he doubts Anakin will be willing to voice any discomfort. Discarding the robe a second time, Anakin lays on the mattress, keeping one knee up while the other leg stretches flat beside it. One of Anakin’s hands goes back to cushion his head, the other draping over his stomach.

“If you don’t mind, Anakin, could you move your hand? The left one, that is. It’ll be better for the people on that side if they can draw the whole thing, instead of having it disappear behind your head. Just let it rest near your hair.”

“Better?”

“Yes, much. Go ahead and get comfortable.”

Anakin shifts, and he closes his eyes when he’s settled. His nose is nearly touching the inside of his wrist, fingers tangled in his curls. Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry when he attempts to swallow, and he almost forgets to start the time before he picks up his charcoals.

He begins shading the backdrop dark, letting the stark black create a gradual mold, the outline of Anakin’s crooked arm taking shape. Now that Anakin’s eyes are closed, it’s easier to focus on his drawing, to let himself be pulled along by the instinctual tug in his fingers and hone in his observations only on the exact angle of Anakin’s nose, the roundness in his chin, the shadows cast on his leg. He draws, and even as the hour slowly thins the number of people still working, he continues, hands growing blacker and more smudged by the minute.

The timer’s soft beep surprises him. It never takes him off guard, because he never loses track of time, but Anakin’s dips and curves and folds have lured him into a place where years could pass without so much as a glance.

“Time, Anakin.”

A few people laugh as Anakin groans, stretching in a dramatic fashion and massaging his hip.

“I've never had a longer hour in my life.” Obi-Wan blinks and forces himself to actually listen to what Anakin’s saying, instead of staring at his scar and wondering if he’d made it a touch too big on Anakin’s face.

“I did warn you," he says mildly, amused by Anakin's mournful plea for pity. "It gets easier with time, or so I’m told. If you go get dressed, I’ll grab your check for you.”

Bail pauses, in the process of packing up. Obi-Wan looks over at Bail’s drawing, which is precise as usual. There’s too much sharpness in it for Obi-Wan’s taste, a level of precision that robs Anakin’s features of the soft, vulnerable quality he’d been aiming to capture.

“It looks good, Obi-Wan. You never cease to impress.”

(You never cease to surprise me, Obi-Wan. I suppose I should know better than to stereotype at my age, but I wouldn’t have guessed such an artist lived buried in the tired professor.)

His smile is strained, fraying at the edges. “Thank you, Bail. Your work is flawless, as always. I’ll see you next week.”

He’s just finished scribbling his signature onto the check when Anakin re-enters. He hadn’t noticed it early, with Binks’ presence on Anakin’s chest obscuring it, but his sleeveless t-shirt is sporting a quote with three different obscenities.

“Sorry. Didn’t realize you were going to be so proper, or I’d have worn something else.” 

Obi-Wan looks up and raises his eyebrows. 

“I’m a professor, not a priest. I assure you, given the composition of my classroom, I hear foul language on a daily basis, if not hourly.” 

Anakin’s laugh is shocked, delighted, and bright. Obi-Wan’s mouth turns up automatically into a smile as he hands over the check. As it leaves his hand, he realizes all at once that Anakin is going to leave, and that he’ll take the only spark of interest Obi-Wan’s experienced in months along with him.

Even as he toys with the idea of doing something to prevent it, Anakin’s gaze is still on him, just as intent and fierce as before, and Obi-Wan finally pinpoints the driving force behind the expression. Anticipation. Anakin is waiting and hoping for something.

He opens his mouth and tries to force himself out of the stupor he’s voluntarily submitted to for the last few months. To change, to _try._

(They’d been at an ice skating rink, and there had been snow in his hair, partially obscuring his vision. He’d been flat on his back, gasping as Qui-Gon’s concerned face hovered above him. It had shielded him momentarily from the snow, and realizing that he wasn’t injured, Obi-Wan had begun to laugh. Qui-Gon had joined him, and when he’d stood, Obi-Wan had decided it was worth it to fall flat on his ass in front of a bunch of teenagers for the feeling of Qui-Gon’s hand in his.)

“I’ll call you next time I need a model. It’ll probably be a few weeks, if that.” He smiles, and Anakin's returned smile does little to mask his disappointment.

“I hope so. It was fun tonight. I’d like to do it again.”

Not exactly a subtle hint, but Obi-Wan doesn't think subtlety is Anakin’s strong point, or even his preferred method of communication.

“I'm glad. I’ll see you soon, then. Good night, Anakin.”

Anakin lingers a moment longer, lips parted as he wavers on the edge of speaking, and then he nods, meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes a final time.

“Good night, Obi-Wan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it's not clear, anything in parentheses is Obi-Wan's memories of Qui-Gon. Hope you liked the second chapter! Don't worry, I promise Anakin will be back.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s another month before Obi-Wan calls Anakin to come back.

“You had me worried.” Anakin’s voice is playfully accusatory, but Obi-Wan feels guilty nevertheless. “I was starting to think I fidgeted too much on that last pose or something.”

“No, nothing of the sort. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you with too many sessions in the beginning. I know it can be a bit tedious.”

Not a complete lie, but certainly not the whole truth behind his silence. The last month had been different from the ones preceding it, if only because for once, he’d able to feel  something beyond apathy. A prickle of interest managing to worm its way under the numbing blanket of grieving. He’d toyed with calling Anakin that night. The next day, he’d let his weaker inclinations get the best of him, and he’d sworn not to call Anakin at all, to stay loyal to a tombstone and a slowly rotting heart . It had taken a whole month of this, the desires scratching and clawing for higher ground, before he’d found himself with Anakin’s number dialed into his phone on a passing whim, one he knew well enough to seize before it passed.  

A laugh came from the other end, the sound of it corrupted by the bad cell connection, the slight crackle disrupting their call.

“That’s one way to put it. Don’t mind the short ones so much, but an hour is tough. I’m definitely gonna make sure I stretch first this time,” Anakin replied ruefully. “Anyways, yeah. I can make it tomorrow. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Looking forward to it, Obi-Wan.”

 

* * *

 

 

“And…that’s time, Anakin. Good job on that last one, I know it wasn’t particularly comfortable.”

“No kidding.” Anakin’s grumbling manages to draw out a smile as Obi-Wan dusts the charcoal from his hands. It’s smudged all over the corner and palm of his right hand, but he hardly minds.

To his surprise, a glance at his canvas reveals that he’s made something decently passable, an accomplishment he’s not managed since Anakin’s last time in the studio. There are still flaws, of course. Anakin’s fingers are not nearly so thin, and he botched the exact angle of Anakin’s tucked in legs, but he caught the shadows cast on Anakin’s cheeks by his eyelashes just right, the curve of his neck transitioning seamlessly to his jaw, his chin, and there are enough details just right that he can be satisfied.

“Wow.”

Without his noticing, Anakin has circled back around him, robe back on, to look at the drawing. Obi-Wan has never minded a model looking at his work before, as they often do, but this feels different. He looks back at the drawing, at the careful attention given to Anakin’s careless curls, the meticulous detail in his eyelashes, and realizes in a nervous rush the intimacy of it. Anakin is staring at every fascinated glance, every curious musing on his words, his desire to know more about the painfully intense young man who wandered into his art studio.

“Can I have it?”  Unusually bold, and Obi-Wan is almost hesitant to part with it, but there will be other times, other drawings. The deep-seated satisfaction that comes with realizing Anakin has accepted his assessment is the dominant desire. 

“Certainly. Let me just set it, or you’ll get home with nothing but a smudged mess.”

As he rummages for the hairspray buried at the bottom of his bag, brought for just this reason, Bail and Windu offer parting comments, and Ahsoka gives him a chipper pat on the back on her way out. Vaguely, he wonders why everyone is in such a hurry to leave tonight, why the easels and chairs have been abandoned so much more quickly than usual.

Finding the hairspray, he straightens up, and realizes that with Ahsoka’s departure, he and Anakin are the only ones left.

Ah. So that’s why.  

Spraying the drawing, he shakes his head, Anakin staring at him in polite confusion. If anything could make Obi-Wan realize his truly pathetic state of affairs, it would be his art class’ clumsy attempt to nudge him towards the first sign of interest he’d taken in anything other than teaching in months.

Rolling the drawing up, he tied a stray piece of string around it to keep it in a tube.

“Here you are. I’ll go get your check, hang on.”

Anakin’s fingers brush against his as he takes the drawing. “Thank you.”

There’s a strange, shaky quality to his vision as he writes the check. He vacillates by the second between two extremes, the possibility that what he is about to do will either be the exact change he needs or the final nail in a half closed coffin.

“Do you want to get a drink? There’s a bar just down the street, if you’d like.”

He shoves the words out of his mouth before he can take them back, and he can almost watch them tumble too fast and too shaky into the air between them. There’s a strange urge to run like a teenager ringing a doorbell and sprinting before he’s forced to endure the aftermath, but he supposes it would be a bit juvenile to grab his cat and run for the door. Besides, he’s still holding the check, extended in the air between them with his words.

“I don’t drink.”  At Obi-Wan’s look of what must be pure horror, Anakin laughs, taking the check and shaking his head to dispel the assumption. “I’m old enough, don’t worry. See? I.D,” he says, visibly swallowing another laugh as he opens his wallet to put away the check and holds it up so Obi-Wan can see the birth date. Less than a month from today, he’ll be twenty three. It’s still young, younger than he’d anticipated.

“No, I don’t drink by choice, that’s all. I do, however, like the part where we leave together. So, because I’m impatient, let’s pretend we had that drink, and now we’re setting off to wherever you’ve chosen for our first real date. Where do we go?”

Obi-Wan is quite certain that no one has been this forward with him in his entire life. He’s very seriously keeping the running from the room as his solid plan B, because plan A involves coming up with something to do at nearly 10 at night, something that will entertain a date when he can’t even interest himself in anything beyond his classes and his teaching.

When backed into a corner, he goes with what he knows.

“Somewhere boring, like myself. Not back to my apartment, if it makes any difference.” He doesn’t want to feel as though he’s luring Anakin away on false pretenses, and if he’s expecting anything more physical than a potential kiss goodnight, then the reality of where they’re going is going to be disappointing.

Anakin smiles, and it’s as obvious on his face what he’s thinking as if it was said aloud. _Not yet_. Obi-Wan does not know whether he disagrees.

“I’m interested in anywhere you want to take me, Obi-Wan.” His voice is too innocent to be sincere, too earnest to be sarcastic. “Let’s go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a filler chapter, but I promise chapter 4 will be longer and full of fun date shenanigans. Hope you're enjoying so far!


	4. Chapter 4

“Are we allowed to be in here?” 

“It depends on who you ask. If you’re asking university policy, then no. If you’re asking the head of my department, no. If you’re asking the technicians that run it, also no. However,” Obi-Wan continues as he unlocks the door and holds it open for Anakin, “If you’re asking the janitors and the night security, who both happen to quite like the cases of beer I get them for holidays, then there’s no harm in it as long as I don’t break anything, which I won’t.” 

Anakin looks more intrigued and impressed than he’d anticipated at the act of unlocking the door to a planetarium at 11 pm on a Wednesday night. He supposes youth is by definition enamored with rule-breaking and perceived rebellion. It strokes his ego more than it should that Anakin is regarding him with admiration, but he suppresses the feeling impatiently, not wanting to get ahead of himself. After all, the grand reveal is nowhere near as exciting. 

“I didn’t think people who wore sweater vests were allowed to break the rules. Or even capable.” 

“Very amusing.” Obi-Wan’s voice is dry, but he’s smiling, navigating the almost completely dark room with ease, managing to catch hold of Anakin’s shoulder right before he collides hip first with a seat. The room is laid out like a small theater, dim lights studded along the edge of the room to provide just enough light to see. “Sit in the back. It works better.” 

He makes his way over to the controls, still remembering how to work them from his stint running planetarium demonstrations as a graduate student gunning for extra credit. He fiddles with a few of the controls before flipping the switch. All at once, the blank dome of the planetarium ceiling is alight with bright points of light over the skyline of their small, no-name city. 

“Wow. This real time?” 

“Not quite. It was taken over the summer. Sagittarius is just over the horizon there,” he says, using the laser pointer from the podium to outline the constellation. “This is what the sky looks like during the summer. On the other hand, this is what it could be, if we lived in a dark sky zone.” 

He presses a button, and the sky projected on the planetarium sky darkens. All of the faint, hazy blanketed light projected into the theoretical sky by cities, the neon sign smog and the clogged up streetlight sludge, is gone. In its place is a black canvas with only the barest tint of blue. Smoky, pale cosmic dust threads through the sky like veins. The sky is darker, but the stars are brighter, each one more brilliant because of the midnight backdrop. 

Obi-Wan puts the screen on auto, and the lights begin crawling across the black, the stars cycling across the sky in a somewhat accelerated version of their nightly trek. Feeling with his hands in front of him and grabbing the seat before he can run into it, Obi-Wan sits down next to Anakin. 

“This is what the sky would look like if all the lights in the city went out all at once. This is what we’re missing, what we obscure when we trade one form of light for another.” 

He feels a soft pressure on his shoulder, and realizes after a moment that Anakin’s head is resting there, tilted slightly back to still see the stars. 

“Which one’s the North Star? I know you’re supposed to know how to find it, but I never can.” 

Obi-Wan raises his hand, pointing upwards so that Anakin can align his gaze with his index finger. 

“Right there is the Big Dipper, and Ursa Major. If you find two stars at the front of the dipper, then you can draw a straight line right over to the Little Dipper, or Ursa Minor, and it’s the first star on the handle there.” 

Anakin raises his hand as well, the tip of his finger drifting in the right general area, but not quite in the right place. Reaching up, Obi-Wan takes Anakin’s hand in his own, guiding it until it’s lined up with the Big Dipper. Careful to keep Anakin’s finger on the star, the two of them trace the line of the Big Dipper’s two front stars, following the line upwards to find the bright star at the handle of the Little Dipper once more. 

“There it is. The North Star, Polaris, technically named Alpha Ursae Minoris. It’s actually three different stars making up one point of light, although it’s too far away for us to distinguish. And as stars go, it’s not particularly special. It’s not the brightest, or the largest, or the hottest. But because it happened to be precisely aligned with the North Pole, it’s arguably the most important star in the sky.” 

For a moment, the two of them are silent. Obi-Wan glances down at Anakin, who is adjusting his cheek so that it rests in a more comfortable spot on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and thinks that he belongs there. 

It’s another few minutes before the concept of time reasserts itself, and he reluctantly remembers that they cannot stay here forever. He goes to check his watch, but it has an old-fashioned clock face, with no blinking digital readout to tell him the time. Nevertheless, he can guess that it must be close to midnight. 

“We should probably leave soon. The janitorial staff are tolerant, but their patience generally ends when my presence impedes their ability to get in here and vacuum,” he says, regret saturating his words. If this had been a real field over a dark sky zone, with no one and nothing but the next day’s responsibilities to nag at them, he would have been content to stay here with Anakin’s head on his shoulder for the rest of the night. 

There’s no reply for a moment, and then Anakin responds with an exaggerated, drawn out sigh. 

“I suppose. After all, if you lose your job here, you’re not going to be able to sneak me in any more, and we can’t have that.” It takes the edge off of the regret that Anakin already anticipates them returning,

It startles him to realize that this is the longest he’s spent with any one person since he’d spent with Qui-Gon. The realization still stings, but for once, no memories rise to the surface, no film reel plays on an automatic trigger, perhaps because he never came here with Qui-Gon. The absence of the recurring pain leaves something hollow and unfamiliar and frightening in its place. 

“Obi-Wan?” 

Once again, he’s been silent a moment too long. 

“Sorry. I was just surprised you enjoyed yourself so much. Many people, including most of my students, wouldn’t be particularly riveted by a planetarium show,” he comments as he rises, nudging Anakin in the right direction so that he can turn off the projector and guide the two of them outside. Both of them blink rapidly when they get back into the hallway, squinting in protest of even the dim hallway lights. 

“No, I did enjoy it. It was just what I was hoping for.” Anakin smiles, and it’s enough to quiet the unsettled feeling of pain and its absence that is sparking in his chest. “If you’re free this Sunday, we can go downtown, find somewhere where we can spend more time together without worrying about getting kicked out. Unless, of course, trespassing is a requirement for a date, in which case I’ll find somewhere illegal for us.” 

He can’t help but laugh, and there’s still hesitation in his heart and guilt in his stomach, but it’s muted, subsided enough that he can breathe past it. Firmly, he tells himself that there is no harm in a little happiness, no matter what he might feel to the contrary. 

“I’d like that.” His mouth even mirrors the bright, satisfied smile on Anakin’s face, lips twitching upwards to mimic the movement without conscious thought or effort. 

They both reach the doors, and over the threshold lies the moment of departure. Anakin lingers for a moment longer, searching Obi-Wan’s face, before shaking his head slightly. Obi-Wan can guess at what he was looking for, what he found, and does not bother to contradict it. He’s not ready for anything more than a date and a good night. Not yet. 

“Good. I’ll see you Sunday, then.” Anakin has the same mix of disappointment and hope that he’d worn on the first night he modeled, when he’d departed without a promise of their next meeting. For now, though, he seems content in knowing that they’ll be seeing each other again in a few days. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” 

Anakin leaves first, and Obi-Wan glances over his shoulder one more time as he makes his way out to his car. Even as he gets into the front seat and starts the ignition, he glances in the rearview mirror, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos so far! I really appreciate everyone who's taken the time to read. The next chapter should be up in the next week or so. My writing of astronomy is based only on a college level intro class, so I apologize for any inaccuracies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very late update! This chapter was very difficult for me to write, but I'm making better progress now with the next one. Thanks for bearing with me!

On Anakin’s fourth day off, Obi-Wan finds out why Anakin has been working three jobs.

Their second date had been Anakin’s pick, and they’d ended up at a quaint diner with the oddest décor Obi-Wan had ever seen. The burgers had been good, the coffee terrible, and their 80 year old waiter arguably the most entertaining person he’d ever met. To Obi-Wan’s surprise, Anakin had left immediately after the meal, promising he’d enjoyed it immensely and that he’d call.

The same happened on their third date at a park, and on their fourth one when Anakin left the baseball game they’d attended a few innings early. Obi-Wan was becoming increasingly puzzled, bordering on hurt by the conflict between Anakin’s claimed interest and the ratio of time spent together.

(“We don’t need to spend every day together, Obi-Wan. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. We have time.”)

Today, they’d spent most of the day having a pleasant day at the art museum. He’d pointed out a few of his favorite paintings, and a spot he’d often gone to draw. Anakin picked out a few that he liked, making astute observations about each, and made fun of a few more (I know you’re not supposed to say this about babies, but those babies are hideous, Obi-Wan. Come on, that one looks like the gargoyle from that Disney movie, and that’s being generous).

Between the tour and lunch at the museum’s attached restaurant, it’s been a successful date, but he’s wary. Sure enough, barely an hour later, Anakin is checking his watch. Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything, but when Anakin looks up, whatever he sees there in Obi-Wan’s face gives him pause.

“What?”

“You’re checking your watch. You have to go soon.” It’s not a question, and Anakin’s body language is apologetic, making no attempt at denial.

“It’s not because I don’t want to spend time with you, promise. I just have something else I need to do.” Obi-Wan swallows hard. He ought to just accept it, take what he can get and be content.

He can't. 

“What is it, then?”

Anakin has always been quick and eager to answer questions, volunteering information about himself without reserve. For the first time, he hesitates.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s my mom.” Anakin's mouth drops into a frown, energy deflated. The expression sits oddly on his face after the lighthearted innocence he’d displayed during the rest of the day. 

“She’s in the hospital. Pancreatic cancer. Even happens to saints, apparently,” he says, scuffing his foot against the cement and clenching his fists in his pockets. Shock keeps Obi-Wan from getting a word in before Anakin continues. “I go visit her on my days off. I work a lot, since they charge through the nose for treatments, so if I don’t see her today I won’t see her again until next week.”

“Oh. Anakin, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” It’s an inadequate response, but Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to say. Anakin is still looking at him, and while Anakin’s face holds no clues or cues that he can read, he knows enough to deduce that Anakin is hoping and wanting for something. Another few seconds of silence, and he makes his best guess. “I don’t mean to impose, but I can come with you, if you like.”

At once, he can see it was the right thing to offer. Anakin’s face brightens, and Obi-Wan realizes how long he must have been making this drive alone, wondering what condition his mother will be in when he arrives. Worse, every Sunday he must make the drive home, and whether the takeaway was encouragement or devastation, he is left to dwell in the aftermath just as alone.

“Really? I’d like to have the company, but if you don’t want to-“

“No, I do,” Obi-Wan says, firm now in his offer because he knows it is not unwelcome. “We could both use the company. Let’s go.”

* * *

Obi-Wan had forgotten that he disliked hospitals, but remembers as soon as they enter the lobby. The clinical white of the walls tries and fails to avoid invoking any kind of emotion, and the place is permeated with the smell of antiseptic fighting a losing battle with the rot of illness. All of it congeals into one, nauseating sensation churning in the pit of Obi-Wan’s stomach, waiting to force its way up if he sees anything too off-putting.

He supposes he’s lucky, in an unpleasant way. If Qui-Gon had made it to the hospital and died here instead of at the moment of impact, he’s certain he never would have been able to step foot inside, which would be an inconvenience both if he ever happened to need medical care and now, when Anakin needed him here.

“Fucking hate it here,” Anakin mutters as they enter, echoing Obi-Wan’s unspoken sentiments while pulling the guest sign-in towards himself and scribbling his name. Obi-Wan prints his own name neatly, and they head for the elevator.

“Hey there, sweetheart. How’s the job treating you?”

A nurse in blue scrubs is waving at Anakin, the lines of her face not too tired for a smile. Anakin returns it, the tightness leaving the corners of his eyes for a moment.

“Good, Eileen. Got decent tips the other night, so I won’t have to worry about gas money for a little while.” Eileen gives Anakin’s shoulder a frail pat as she pauses to speak to him, the veins on her hands and wrists standing out under the stark fluorescent light above them.

  
“I’m glad, Anakin. And it’s so nice to see you’ve brought someone with you.” A light beeps on her pager, and with an apologetic wave, she’s clipping down the hall at a pace remarkable for her apparent age.

“A friend of yours?”

Anakin shakes his head, the smile fading with every step they take closer to the elevator. He punches the button as though it’s done him a personal disservice, and he stares at the ceiling for a while before he answers.

  
“Sort of. You come in here once a week almost every week for five years, you start making friends with the nurses. Eileen’s always nice to Mom, and she lets me know how she’s been.” His fingers are tapping over his pocket in a quick, restless pattern. “I know they’re just trying to help, but it makes it worse, knowing they probably sit around on their lunchbreak and talk about ‘that poor Skywalker kid’ and his shit luck.”

It’s disconcerting, seeing the bitter twist of Anakin’s mouth after becoming accustomed to finding a smile there instead. He doesn’t know what to say, and Anakin glances at him after a moment of the silence.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to start with the self pity.”

“No, it’s fine. It must be hard, there’s nothing wrong with feeling like you do.”

The words feel thick and clumsy, empty as an amalgam of platitudes picked from a pamphlet on dealing with hardship. They are all he can offer, at least right now, because the alternative of offering true empathy means delving into a place that he does not want to go to. He doesn’t think that he can.

(“The longer you let yourself think on it, the deeper you’ll get lost in your own head. Breathe. It’ll be alright. We both will.” Qui-Gon’s thumb is on his cheek, rubbing away a spot of dampness-)

“Here, it’s this one.”

They’re at room 305, and Anakin is standing at the threshold, reaching for the smile he’d been wearing when he chatted with the nurse. Anakin’s whole body is hesitation and anxiety, his hands at his sides with his fingers curled towards his pockets. Obi-Wan’s chest hurts in a familiar way, but today, it’s not for himself.

He reaches out and takes Anakin’s hand, squeezing it hard, all the reassurance he can never seem to say aloud, and Anakin squeezes back before letting go and stepping into the room.

“Hey, Mom.” 

It’s a shock to look at Anakin’s mother, even having been braced with the knowledge of her illness. Her hair is short, a dull color that might once have been brown, and she looks as though without the bed to hold her up, she would sink instantly to the floor, her body too weak to support her. She’s bypassed skinny for emaciated, the blue gown they have her in hanging loosely from her frame. If she closed her eyes, Obi-Wan would think her already passed.

He glances at Anakin, who does better at masking his emotions than Obi-Wan had anticipated. It’s still not enough to conceal the way he’s bleeding.

“Ani. It’s good to see you again, but I keep telling you not to spend all your days off cooped up in here with me.” Her smile is gentle, and softens some of the harsh lines of her face, created by too much weight lost too fast. When she looks to Obi-Wan, he can see something close to hope in her eyes.

“This is Obi-Wan. We were out on a date, and he said he didn’t mind stopping by with me,” Anakin says as he pulled up a chair, offering it to Obi-Wan before pulling up another one for himself. The way Anakin phrases it, one would think all dates ended in visits to hospitals.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Skywalker”

“Just Shmi is fine. I hope you two didn’t disrupt your date just to stop by and see me. As happy as it makes me to have my son visit so often, I think he forgets not everyone will want to see me.”

“I don’t mind at all. I’m happy to meet anyone so important to Anakin.” It’s just a pleasantry, but it’s true. Although he hadn’t mentioned her illness, Anakin told him plenty about Shmi, about the woman who had singlehandedly raised a child who had in turn raised hell nearly everywhere he went. By Anakin’s own admission, the task of keeping him in school and out of juvie had not been an easy one.

“Oh, Ani, you really don’t have anything better to do on dates than bore him with stories about me?” It’s difficult not to notice the self-depreciating tone, the way every question, query or comment seems to lead away from herself and back to Anakin.

“Don’t say that. You’re amazing, why wouldn’t I tell him about you?.” Anakin says, tone so earnest that something twisted oddly in Obi-Wan’s chest.

It’s difficult to be witness to Anakin’s love for his mother, blinding in purity and shadowed by tragedy. The hospital room seems suddenly to be a living thing closing in on them, the smell of flowers mixing with disinfectant and the crinkle of hospital pillows and the faded blue of Shmi’s gown all one self-aware being intent on tarnishing the simple joy of their love. The ache in his chest grows more pronounced, and he finds himself looking at his hands, no longer able to watch the tender way Anakin’s hand curls around his mother’s, thumb carefully avoiding the IV.

“….and Obi-Wan was showing me the planetarium the other day. You know how we could never find the Big Dipper when I was a kid? Well, it turns out, there’s this neat trick for it. You just-“

Shmi’s eyes snap shut suddenly. Anakin’s voice drops off the second they do so, too quickly for Obi-Wan to believe Anakin had not been waiting for it, braced for it.

“I’m sorry, Anakin. It’s just nausea. It comes suddenly, and I know you haven’t been here long, but I don’t know when it’ll pass…” The weak attempt to underplay the issue is little more than a bandaid over the raw helplessness in her voice. Anakin’s hand, the one still in his lap, opens and closes compulsively.

“It’s alright. We’ll let you get some rest.” Anakin stands, pressing a kiss to her cheek, hair falling forward to cover his face. “I’ll see you next week. Love you, Mom.”

Anakin’s lips turn up in a smile, but he is blinking hard as he turns, reaching for his bag.

“It was nice to meet you, Shmi.”

Her eyes linger on Anakin's bowed shoulders for a moment longer. Obi-Wan remembers Anakin's earlier words, and finds them to fit her well. Shmi is the picture of a suffering saint, imbued with the same selfless grace to her agony. With so much of her energy focused on her son, it's little wonder she has none left for herself. When her eyes finally fall on Obi-Wan, her earlier expression of hope returns, easing the tense lines of her face. 

“It was nice to meet you, Obi-Wan. Keep an eye on Anakin for me, won’t you?”

"I will." 

As they step into the hallway, Obi-Wan reaches down once more to where Anakin’s hand is clenched in on itself, pressing at the gaps between his fingers and palm. Anakin looks up sharply, frowning without a trace of pretense, but opens his hand. Obi-Wan smooths a thumb over the nail marks on the palm before lacing their fingers together.

 “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought this work was dead! Well...me too. Sorry about that. Hope this longerish chapter makes up for it!

 “Fuck.”

 

They're in a bar, the first time Obi-Wan had seen Anakin have a drink. He’s drinking a whiskey, and making the face of a person not at all accustomed to the taste.

 

“Anakin, you don’t have to drink whiskey. I can order you something else…”  


Anakin silences him with another look. Another gulp, another contorted look of disgust that would have been comical if not for Anakin’s distress. He sighs, and then shoves the half-empy glass at Obi-Wan. “Fine, you finish it. This tastes like shit. I thought whiskey was supposed to make me feel better.”

 

“People are generally seeking the effect, not the taste,” he replies mildly, signaling the bartender and asking for a beer. Anakin’s cheeks are already flushed – no need to add fuel to the fire.

 

Anakin takes the beer, but Obi-Wan ignores the whiskey. After all, one of them has to drive. Suddenly, something occurs to Obi-Wan, and he lets out a breath of disappointment in himself.

 

“Anakin, I forgot – you told me you don’t drink. I’m sorry, I should have remembered.”

 

He shrugs, the bottle still resting against his lips in an unfairly tantalizing manner. “It’s fine, Obi-Wan. Besides, that’s what bars are for, right? Feeling miserable and drinking to forget it.”

 

The beer is half gone. It’s been less than a minute since Anakin started drinking, and Obi-Wan is regretting his decision even more deeply now, but for the life of him he can’t imagine what else he might have done to cheer Anakin up. He looks at his own drink, swirling the undrunk whiskey around in the glass.

 

(Obi-Wan is laughing in lazy, drunken spurts, cheek pressed to Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “Bed for you, I think.”)

 

“You know what sucks about cancer?”  


Obi-Wan glances at Anakin, raising his eyebrows. His first instinct is to say “everything,” but he’s fairly sure it’s a rhetorical question.

 

“What?”

 

“How helpless it makes people.” Anakin’s grip is tightening around the bottle, his gaze fixed firmly on the bar. “Not just me. Her, too. She can’t just-just eat healthier, or spend more money on it, or get more sleep, or anything. There’s nothing she could have done. Got fucked by genetics, and there’s nothing me or any doctor can do. Best I can do is make her _comfortable.”_ He spits the word in disgust before taking another drink. “It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, for years, and not being able to do anything but stare.”

 

The analogy tears right through Obi-Wan’s careful composure like shrapnel, leaving him bleeding and gasping. For a moment, the whole bar tilts sideways, and he grips the wood of the ledge in front of him until it creaks. (Car crash-helpless-nothing I could do-)

 

“Obi-Wan?”

 

Even half drunk, Anakin’s perception is not dulled enough to miss the look gripping Obi-Wan’s face. He smooths it over with immense difficulty, his heart still pounding and flooding his veins with adrenaline in response to a perceived danger. The adrenaline, his body’s attempt to keep him alive in the face of whatever adversity it thinks him to be facing, is wasted, and it only serves to make his hands shake and his senses unpleasantly sharp.

 

“That’s awful, Anakin. I’m sorry.” He passes his response off as a sympathetic reaction. Anakin knows it is wrong, he is sure, but is likely too drunk to parse out why, so he shrugs it off. The inadequacy of the comfort stings Obi-Wan’s tongue.

 

“Don’t I fucking know it.”

 

The beer is gone. Anakin waves at the bartender to order another, but Obi-Wan takes his wrist firmly, shaking his head as his other hand reaches for his wallet.

 

“No, I don’t think so. You need to get home.” Anakin stands, and to his utter amazement, sways. It had, after all, only been a beer and barely half a whiskey.

 

“This is why I don’t drink,” Anakin mutters, leaning heavily on Obi-Wan as they press towards the door and into the temperate night air. “S’fucking embarrassing.” Anakin’s breath is hot on his ear as Obi-Wan guides him towards the car, his weight making it awkward as Obi-Wan tries to extract his keys from his pocket.

 

“Obi-Wan,” he says, and there is something in Anakin’s voice that crawls underneath Obi-Wan’s skin, a heat that scorches. When he turns to look, Anakin’s lips meet his.

 

It is the first time that Anakin’s kissed him – that they’ve kissed each other, because Obi-Wan does not pull back immediately – and it _hurts._

 

The sensation, the need, the blind desperation in both of them, is too much. It is too much because it is the wrong timing, unromantic and unglamorous. Worse, it makes him acknowledge how badly he wants Anakin, and forces him to accept all the implications that come with it.

 

(Qui-Gon’s mouth tastes of toothpaste, a sharp spearmint that makes his nostrils sting. Of raspberries, the lingering sweetness staining his own tongue. Of wine, heady and tangy, the same taste of the glass sitting by his right hand. Of-)

 

“Stop,” he murmurs, and Anakin does, without asking. For a moment, he looks at Obi-Wan. There’s something dispassionate there, the kind of need that is as cruel as it is worthy of pity. Slowly, intentionally, Anakin leans in again, pausing just over Obi-Wan’s lips.

 

“If you want me to stop, I will.” Anakin’s breath, still smelling of whiskey too strong for him, fans over Obi-Wan’s face. They’re too close to even see each other properly – all Obi-Wan can make out is the hyper-magnified details. “But I don’t think you do.”

 

He doesn’t. He does. Anakin is so close, and he would give anything to be just one centimeter closer, to close the gap. Anakin is so close, and all he wants is to be a thousand miles away. The alcohol in Anakin’s breath and the howling animal of grief in his chest are all too much.

 

He kisses Anakin again, and the whole world winds down to that one moment, to the scrape of Anakin’s chapped lips against his, to the way the line where their mouths meet creates a warmth that Obi-Wan could chase forever.

 

“I do. But-“

 

“That’s my least favorite word in the world right now.”

 

“But,” Obi-Wan says, more insistent now even as his hands curl in Anakin’s shirt, and he has to close his eyes to steady himself, “not here. Not like this. You’re drunk.”

 

“M’not…drunk. You’re drunk.”

 

The petulance is so endearing that Obi-Wan can’t help but laugh shakily, pressing a light kiss to Anakin’s cheek.

  
“Oh, I think you are. Come on. Let’s get you home.” Anakin’s disappointment is tangible, and he does little to hide it – his lips are set in a hard line, his brows drawn together like clouds collecting before a storm. Guilt hooks into him like an anchor dropping, and his voice is almost a plea when he speaks.

 

“Be patient with me, Anakin.”

 

It’s hard to ask, because it’s been long enough, because he has no right to ask, really. No right to ask this person made of spontaneity and wildness and fierceness to tether himself to one spot and wait for Obi-Wan to shake the dust from his shoulders and start moving again. Worse, still, because he asks without justification or explanation.

 

Anakin surveys him for a moment, as though gauging the cost and the reward, his own ability to do what Obi-Wan asks. Finally, with a groan of defeat, he rests his head on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

  
“And people call me selfish.” It’s mean, and it’s a childish jab, but Obi-Wan knows it’s a concession in the only way Anakin knows how to offer it. It's also true, and deserved. “Fine. Just take me home.”

 

Obi-Wan can barely get Anakin into the passenger seat of the car. He suspects that Anakin is not really drunk anymore so much as he’s tired and determined to give Obi-Wan a hard time to make up for his disappointment. He tolerates it without complaint, even as he needs to half carry Anakin up the stairs to his apartment and stick his own hand into Anakin’s pocket to fish for the keys.

 

The apartment is predictably cramped and tiny, but the small space is overflowing with personality – posters taped to the walls, stacks of paper sitting on the counters, a small stack of DVDs that look like most of them have been ripped off the internet. Pairs of shoes, boxes, and undershirts are scattered in Obi-Wan’s path as he heaves Anakin into the bedroom and onto the bed.

 

“Next time I come here, we’re cleaning this place up. Because I’m pretty sure I saw-“

 

There’s a very dramatic, very pointed fake-snore.

 

“Alright, alright.” For a moment, he considers laying down right next to Anakin and sleeping right there. As attractive as the prospect is, he knows better than to tempt Anakin a second time, and work in the morning is already going to be an ordeal for both of them as it is.

 

Obi-Wan reaches across Anakin to plug his phone in for him, to check and make sure an alarm is set for the next morning, and then to pull a blanket up to Anakin’s chin.

 

“Good night, Anakin. I’ll see you soon.”  


End file.
